A/N: Enjoy!

QLFC - Round 9

Team: Puddlemere United

Chaser 3: 13

Optional Prompts: [creature] Ghost, [object] Door, [Weather] Thunderstorm

WC: 1,001

~~ Superstitious Woes ~~

Enid Pettigrew hadn't always been a superstitious woman. At least, that was what Peter had heard.

Like most witches and wizards, she knew that most of the things that Muggles were afraid of were simply absurd. Things like walking under a ladder, or black cats had nothing to do with luck. Of course, there were some things that had been magically proven to be unlucky: the number four, for instance, as well as five-leafed clovers, and Enid had believed in those, just like everyone else.

True, Enid Pettigrew had been a bit quirkier than the rest of the witches, so quirky she'd gone off and married a Muggle, but she hadn't been superstitious.

It only started when Peter was four years old, and John Pettigrew walked out of the door, leaving him and his mother all alone.

Peter's story was the same as many Half-Blood children. Enid had finally told her husband the truth about her and her baby when Peter first started showing signs of accidental magic. John had done the cowardly thing: he had turned away from what he couldn't understand. At least, that was how Peter saw it.

His mother caved in on herself after that, and slowly, she started to believe in things that weren't really there, and things that weren't true. By the time Peter was seven, she'd convinced herself that her husband had never left but had simply died in an accident. The story often changed. Sometimes, it was a car accident, sometimes a mugger. Certain days she went so far as to imagine how he'd been poisoned by a jealous ex-lover, but other times, he'd simply forgotten to check both sides of the road.

By the time he was eight, she'd check her shoulder twice a day, convinced that his ghost was following her.

That was when it truly set in. What had simply been a whim at first, like placing a horseshoe over the door of the house, became a habit, a need, and, finally, something she couldn't control. Something that took over her life.

No mirrors facing one another, no keys on the table, no hats on the bed. They were simple things like that in the beginning. Easy things. But as time went by, things became more and more absurd. She would mix things up, confuse Muggle and Wizard traditions.

"Throw the salt over your shoulder, it keeps away the ghosts," she would say to Peter.

"Tap the door frame, twice if it's wood, once if it's iron," was another one of her favourites.

"Never sneeze during a thunderstorm, or you'll wake the dead," she murmured to him when the rain pounded at their windows.

Peter was pretty sure half of her warnings were completely made up by the time he was ten, but there was no breaking her out of it.

But the worst one for her had always been the number thirteen.

One day, when Peter came home from Hogwarts for the summer vacation, she rushed into his arms, yelling gleefully, almost manically.

"I've figured it out, Petey!" she said. "You were 52 months old when he died, which is four times thirteen! And the last time I saw him was at 1300 hours! It must've been the thirteenth second too!"

That day, he'd quietly put her to bed, hoping she would be better in the morning. It had been a bit of a struggle because she'd yelled at him that if she went to bed during the day, the ghosts would come and get her.

Peter then knew that she was truly haunted, but only by her own ghosts, the ones she'd made up in her mind. But sometimes, it almost felt as if the ghosts she imagined were following him too, that they were actually there.

"Tap the door frame four times before leaving!" she yelled as he made his way from her bed.

Now, Peter knew that she must've found all sorts of reasons for why he'd supposedly died. Little things that had brought him bad luck over the years, and that had finally resulted in his inevitable death. He only hoped she didn't blame herself too much.

There were many reasons why he'd regretted faking his death—namely having to live as a rat for several years—but in truth, this one came back to mind the most often. His poor mother probably couldn't handle two ghosts at once.

But now that the Dark Lord was back from the dead, maybe Peter could have a little luck. His situation wasn't the best, but at least there was no more faking his death. He was truly alive.

After all, it had been thirteen years since he hadn't seen his mother, so maybe the number could bring a little good luck from time to time. At least, that was what he hoped as he knocked tentatively on the door of the address he had been given.

There was a crash from inside and a few moments later, the door opened and an old woman, his mother, stepped out, a frown on her face. However, it quickly morphed into disbelief as she saw who it was, and finally, a smile that showed truly how happy she was to see him.

"Pe—Petey?" she asked, using his childhood nickname.

"Hi, mum," he said softly.

She grabbed him into a hug. "I thought you were dead!"

"I was hiding for thirteen years."

She flinched slightly at the number but didn't say anything, and Peter smiled a little and tightened the hug.

"Too long, Petey. It's been too long."

She quickly brought him into the house, sat him down, and fed him tea and biscuits. There were still small things, he noticed, like a sprig of rosemary in the sugar pot, but not as much as he had feared. He knew she must've heard what he had done in the papers, or someone had warned her. But never once did she mention it to him.

Maybe the number thirteen was bringing him some luck.